


Love (The Kind You Clean Up With a Mop and Bucket)

by Gigi_Sinclair



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: And related dubcon, M/M, Please see end notes for details, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:20:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22420963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gigi_Sinclair/pseuds/Gigi_Sinclair
Summary: "Jaskier keeps heroically silent while they eat, commenting only on the quality of the food, which is adequate, if unfortunately bland, as is common for the cuisine in this part of the continent. When Geralt has finished, Jaskier goes around the table to sit on the bench beside him. Jaskier sees the man's entire body stiffen, but it doesn't faze him. Jaskier now has something he's never had about Geralt before: knowledge, and knowledge is most definitely power.“What do you want?” Geralt grunts, when Jaskier rests his hand on one wide thigh.“What I've always wanted.” What he never thought he could have. “You.”"
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 18
Kudos: 573





	Love (The Kind You Clean Up With a Mop and Bucket)

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to sospes, even though I don't know them, because they also posted a fic that makes mention of a similar type of love potion today. Great minds think alike. Or there are only so many fantasy tropes out there. 
> 
> Title from "The Bad Touch" by Bloodhound Gang. 
> 
> See end for detailled warnings.

“We must resist.”

“Easy for you to fucking say,” Jaskier mutters, although it doesn't really seem like it is. There's a groan in Geralt's voice that sounds like pure sin. It would be deadly, he's sure, if Jaskier was in any condition to appreciate it. 

He's not. He is, in fact, a column of pure flame, blazing like a wildfire from his head to the tips of his toes. Geralt has him backed against a tree, the bark scratching through the silk of Jaskier's doublet. Geralt's muscular bulk is a hair's breadth from Jaskier's overheated body. Not close enough. 

“Fuck. Touch me.” It's not poetic. Jaskier's not in the mood for poetry. 

“I can't.” But Geralt leans in even more, his face close to, but not quite against, the side of Jaskier's neck. He makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a sniff. 

“Stop smelling me and touch me, damn you.” Jaskier reaches out himself, his hands grasping Geralt's shoulders. It helps, but only as much as a small bandage would help a gaping wound. He runs one hand up to Geralt's face, the other down to his arse. He gives a squeeze, and Geralt grunts. 

Honestly, this is nothing Jaskier hasn't wanted to do since he first laid eyes on the man, but he always pictured his part in this scenario as something a little more suave, and a lot less uncontrollably desperate. 

“What's happening?” Jaskier gasps, as he finally gets one hand on the bare, stubbled skin of Geralt's cheek. Rather than soothe him, the sensation of skin-on-skin inflames Jaskier further. He yanks Geralt nearer. Geralt allows him to, pushing the length of his body against Jaskier's and pressing a sweet, surprisingly chaste, kiss to Jaskier's forehead. 

“The amoris bestia. It's my fault.” Geralt's mouth moves down, tracking over Jaskier's face. Jaskier, in turn, buries his hands in that luscious hair. “I should have known it was their mating season.” Following the lead of his mouth, Geralt's hands roam southwards on Jaskier's body. They stop frustratingly early. Jaskier can feel Geralt balling them into fists, obviously trying to keep them from going any lower. 

“Mating season?” If Geralt's not going to move his hands down, then Jaskier will do it for him. He wraps one hand around a fist and coaxes it open, pressing it against Jaskier's groin, which currently sports an erection so impressive, it should be immortalized in story and song. Jaskier lets out a whimper. 

In reply, Geralt moans, a sound that should be illegal and probably is in the more conservative parts of the continent. He heaves Jaskier off the ground. Quite of their own accord, Jaskier's legs wrap around his waist, both hands grasp Geralt's face and Jaskier opens his mouth to a kiss. 

It's hard, wet, ravenous. Jaskier feels at once lightheaded, as any blood still lingering near his brain is immediately redeployed to his cock.

“Pheromones,” Geralt says, staggering a little. The word is barely out of his mouth before he takes another kiss, then another. Jaskier gives them gladly. “Dangerous.” 

“No shit,” Jaskier says. He means to, anyway. The words may be a little garbled, as Geralt moves them over to the bedroll. Jaskier has imagined this, too. In his dreams, it usually involved Geralt lovingly laying him out on a luxurious four-poster bed, rather than dropping him onto the ground, but those are mere details. Jaskier needs to be naked, now. More than that, he needs Geralt naked, too. 

For once, Geralt actually does what Jaskier wants him to, without even having to be asked. In an instant, he's shirtless. The sight is enough to distract Jaskier from the fastenings of his own trousers, which are suddenly extremely complicated and, quite frankly, unfathomable. 

Geralt takes his staring for hesitation.

“We don't have to do this,” he says, as noble and gritty as always, although the size of his pupils, as well as being indescribably alluring, is an excellent indication he's suffering just as much as Jaskier is. The enormous bulge in the front of Geralt's pants is another. “We can be strong.”

“Fuck strong.” Jaskier gives up on the trousers and rips them open. “Fuck _me._ ” 

“We'll regret it.” 

“I won't.” _Maybe_ you _will._ If he was in any other state, the thought might have been enough to throw cold water on Jaskier's desire, but he's not in those states. He's in this one: high, apparently, on amoris bestia mating pheromones, and no longer able to deny himself what he's wanted for so very long. 

Jaskier puts a hand around his own cock and strokes. He doesn't mean it to be a come on—he hasn't got the brain capacity for that level of thought at the moment—but he's dying for something to touch him, even if it's only his hand. Geralt stares at him, his eyes glowing with an intensity Jaskier's never seen before.

“Fuck,” Geralt growls, eloquent as always. 

“Please,” Jaskier agrees. 

He fancies he can see it: the precise moment Geralt lets himself give in. Desire and self-recrimination wage war on his beautiful face, but the battle is short-lived. Then, Jaskier gets exactly what he needs: Geralt, removing the remainder of his own clothing with more haste than he's ever seen unless there was a steaming hot bath involved. Geralt, tearing Jaskier's trousers the rest of the way off with no regard whatsoever for the fine fabric or skilled tailoring. Geralt, resting all of his lovely heavy weight on top of Jaskier's body. Geralt's hands, Geralt's mouth, Geralt's cock. _We need to find these amoris bestia every mating season_ , Jaskier thinks, as his lust crests like a wave, breaks like a fever. Then, he stops thinking altogether. 

***

When Jaskier awakens, it's with the sun in his face, dried come on his stomach and a familiar sweet soreness in his backside. “Hmm,” he murmurs, without opening his eyes. _Feels like a good night._

He tries to recall the details, but is faced with a disappointing blank. He was drunk, then, he assumes. His pounding headache would testify to that. 

As he rolls onto his back, Jaskier bumps into a very large, very warm mass lying beside him. His eyes snap open. 

They're outside, which is the first surprise. He's used to sleeping outdoors these days, but it's been a long time since he fucked anyone _al fresco._ Which might mean...But it can't. Can it? 

There's only one way to find out. Jaskier turns his head, just enough to see a flash of long, white hair. 

Geralt is still asleep, which is an unexpected blessing. Jaskier can't ever remember waking up before him, but it gives him a period of grace, a few moments to try to recall something, anything, of how they might have ended up here, at long fucking last. Literally.

Memories come slowly, dripping lazily like treacly elderflower syrup flowing from the bottle. Then, just like with elderflower syrup, an unexpected deluge cascades out at all at once, soaking Jaskier's metaphorical stack of flat cakes in an instant. The amoris bestia. Fat, sluggish creatures. Looked a bit like dicks with tiny legs. Jaskier had assumed that was where they got their name, but apparently, no. He couldn't think why it took a witcher to combat them. Now, he knows. 

Geralt stirs. “Fuck.” 

“Good morning.” Jaskier turns to face him. “Well, I'm not sure exactly what time it is. It seems like morning. How are you feeling? Because I have the worst headache.”

Even after all this time, Jaskier can count on one hand the number of expressions he's seen Geralt make. He more than doubles that number in the next few seconds. He finishes by jumping up, pushing the blankets off Jaskier in the process and exposing his body to the cool air. “Hey,” Jaskier protests, but Geralt is already gone, disappeared into the trees. 

_He's going to come back._ That's what Jaskier tells himself. Roach is still here, after all, as is Geralt's pack and the rest of their meagre possessions, including all of Geralt's clothing. 

After a while, Jaskier gets up, wipes himself off, and begins to hunt around for his own clothes. The trousers, unfortunately, will require significant repairs to make them wearable again. He stuffs them into his bag and takes out his spare pair, sadly nowhere near as elegant or stylish. His doublet is a little better. He smooths out the creases and pulls it on over a clean chemise, then takes a handful of willow bark from Geralt's pack for his headache. After that, he feels almost like a new man. _A man who had fantastic sex with Geralt of Rivia_ , he reminds himself. If he smirks a little, there's no one to see him but Roach and the insects and the birds in the trees. 

Jaskier is working on a new song—after some consideration, he decides “The Most Wonderful Cock in the World” is too bawdy a title for mainstream audiences, and is going with “Surprise Love” instead—when Geralt skulks back into the campsite. As much as any large, naked man with white hair can skulk, anyway. 

It's painful, if not monumental, task but Jaskier holds his tongue while Geralt dresses. When he looks up from pulling on his boots, his gaze meets Jaskier's and Jaskier can't help himself. “Geralt.” Jaskier grins. He wants to hug Geralt, or better yet kiss him, but he does know this man. “I just wanted to say...”

“Don't.” 

“Sorry?”

“Don't say anything. Ever.” 

“Ah.” So that's how it's going to be. Jaskier should have suspected at much. Did suspect as much, when Geralt fled, although he hoped, foolishly, things might be different. 

Geralt hesitates. “Are you hungry?” He says, finally. 

Those aren't the three little words Jaskier was hoping to hear from him, but they'll do. They have to. 

Life goes on. Jaskier travels with Geralt, off and on. He sleeps with beautiful women and handsome men, sometimes both at once. And if, on some lonely nights, Jaskier summons the cherished memories of that wild, impassioned evening in the woods when he takes himself in hand, what, he asks himself rhetorically, is the harm in that? 

Almost two years pass before the words _amoris bestia_ again grace Jaskier's finely-tuned ears. He and Geralt haven't seen one another in several weeks, but Jaskier's mood is buoyed by being at the kind of party he loves best. There's good food and better wine and aristocrats drunk enough to be more than willing to share both—and a lot more besides—with a lowly entertainer. Jaskier is taking a short break from his music, partaking of both the food and the drink and casting his eye about for a likely companion to entertain once he's finished his official duties for the evening, when he hears it. 

“And that's when I realized it was nothing but bloody amoris bestia scent,” a plummy female voice says, a short distance from where Jaskier is standing. Her companion, an equally well-dressed young lady, hums sympathetically, but she is looking elsewhere. Her gaze catches Jaskier's. “Of course, the mage wouldn't give me a refund,” the first woman continues, as Jaskier makes his way over to them. “Bloody criminal. I've a mind to report him to someone.” 

“Good evening, ladies.” Jaskier bestows his most dazzling smile upon them. The second woman's smile grows in turn, but her talkative companion merely rolls her eyes. Undaunted, Jaskier continues, “Did I hear you mention amoris bestia?” 

“Yes!” The first woman warms up at once, turning towards Jaskier. “Would you believe, I paid a mage very good coin for a love potion, and that's what the charlatan gave me! Nothing but a bottle of that stinking amoris bestia grease.” 

“I'm given to understand it has quite powerful qualities.” 

The woman scoffs. “Only if you're already in love. Which, as I said to the mage, is absolutely useless. Why would I need to give Lord Dulcente a love potion, if he was already in love with me? I mean, really. And on top of that...” There's more, but Jaskier's ears turn themselves off. The woman's friend has apparently done the same. She's making suggestive faces at Jaskier, but he ignores them. 

“What do you mean,” he interrupts, abruptly enough that both women raise their delicately shaped eyebrows, “amoris bestia scent only works if you're already in love?”

“Everybody knows that.” Her words drip with derision. “That's why they call it 'the husband helper.'” Jaskier has never heard it called that. He's never heard anything about it, beyond that single experience with Geralt. “It does nothing for anyone unless they're already with the person they love.” 

Emotions cycle, like seasons, through Jaskier. “Rage” wins out. _That lying son-of-a-bitch._

“Lord Dulcente isn't good enough for you,” Jaskier tells the woman, although he has no idea if he is, or even who that person might be. “Men are scum.” As are men-like mutants. “You'd be better off with your friend here.” 

Jaskier leaves the two women bestowing speculative looks on one another, and goes off to sing thinly veiled love songs about the person he now despises more than anyone on the continent, yet somehow also adores more than ever. 

Another fortnight goes by before Jaskier sees Geralt again. He uses the time to perfect his approach. After considering several options, ranging from sobbing to screaming, he decides he's going to keep things cool. Play his cards close to his chest. Casually mention the amoris bestia incident, see what Geralt has to say for himself. 

At last, one quiet morning, Jaskier passes a nondescript stable in a nondescript village and sees Geralt brushing Roach. His carefully laid plan goes out the window when Geralt looks up.

“You bastard!” Jaskier yells, jumps into his arms, and kisses him.

Geralt doesn't drop him. He doesn't kiss back, either. He stands completely still until Jaskier pulls back for a breath, at which point he growls, “What the fuck are you doing, Jaskier?” 

His tone of voice and rigid posture deter Jaskier not one whit, not now he knows the truth. “You love me.” 

“What?” Geralt sets him down, with a gentleness that does not go unnoticed. 

“There's no point in denying it. I know about the amoris bestia.”

“What?” 

“The 'husband helper.'” Jaskier grins. He can't stop himself. “You love me.” 

“ _What?_ ”

“You can keep saying that, but it doesn't change anything. I _know_ , Geralt.” 

“You don't know shit.” Geralt stalks off. That's fine. He's still Geralt, and Jaskier didn't expect any of this to be easy. 

Jaskier catches up with him as Geralt, needless to say, enters the nearest tavern. 

“I'll buy you a drink,” Jaskier offers. 

“Not necessary.”

Jaskier does it anyway, and gets two plates of mutton and mash to go along with it. He's never known Geralt to turn down a meal, and he doesn't now. His scowl doesn't shift as he digs in, hunched over his food as if someone might try to steal it from him. 

Jaskier keeps heroically silent while they eat, commenting only on the quality of the food, which is adequate, if unfortunately bland, as is common for the cuisine in this part of the continent. When Geralt has finished, Jaskier goes around the table to sit on the bench beside him. Jaskier sees the man's entire body stiffen, but it doesn't faze him. Jaskier now has something he's never had about Geralt before: knowledge, and knowledge is most definitely power. 

“What do you want?” Geralt grunts, when Jaskier rests his hand on one wide thigh. 

“What I've always wanted.” What he never thought he could have. “You.” 

“Bad fucking idea.” 

It's not a no. It is, in fact, nearly a complete sentence which, for Geralt, is practically a soliloquy. “We love each other. You can't deny it, Geralt. The amoris bestia spoke for you.” The fact he then lied about it for two years is another issue. Jaskier can be the bigger man and let that one go, for the moment. 

“You're not a total idiot,” Geralt says. It brings a fluttery sensation to Jaskier's chest. 

“A compliment, Geralt? For me? I didn't know you had it in you. Speaking of having things in us...” 

“Why would you think the amoris bestia would affect me the same way it would a human?” 

Years ago, Jaskier witnessed an enraged woman hitting her unfaithful husband in the face with a shovel. He never really appreciated how that must have felt, until now. “You mean to say...”

“I mean to say, Roach owes you one. If you hadn't been around, I would have probably fucked her. Or a tree. Or a drowner, if I'd found one.” 

“It doesn't discriminate, then, for witchers?” 

“No. You just happened to be there.” 

“Right.” Jaskier feels himself blush. Geralt said he wasn't a total idiot, but that's exactly how he feels. “Wishful thinking, then.” So what else is new?

Geralt looks like he's about to say something, but this is Geralt. He says nothing. In the next village, Jaskier fucks a pair of buxom blonde twins in a hayloft. It soothes his humiliation a little, but does nothing for his disappointment. Time will ease that, Jaskier knows. It always has before. 

***

Jaskier always planned to die heroically, going out in a blaze of glory, leaving behind an epic tale to be sung in taverns and halls the length and breadth of the continent for generations to come. 

Well, not _always._ His original plan was to die wealthy and ancient, in bed surrounded by his dozens of children and beautiful companions of all genders and races. But dying heroically is a solid Plan B, and something that's started to seem more likely the longer he travels with Geralt. 

What he never wanted was to die like this: by accident. Run through by a blackguard's blade, because the blackguard mistook Jaskier for someone who owed him money. 

“You mean he's not Filbert the Fool?” Jaskier's murderer asks incredulously, adding insult to fatal injury. Jaskier tries to speak, to damn this killer with his skilful words, but he can't make a sound. 

“It's all right, Jaskier.” At once, Geralt is there, kneeling in the sawdust beside Jaskier. _And I'm not even dying in a nice, sanitary place_ , Jaskier tuts inwardly. “You'll be all right.” 

Jaskier opens his mouth again. This time something does emerge: blood, pouring down his chin like a sticky warm waterfall. _Fuck_ , Jaskier thinks. He may not be a healer, but that doesn't seem like a positive development. 

“Jaskier.” Geralt leans closer. Jaskier's vision is blurring, but he can see something on Geralt's face. An actual expression? Jaskier must be even worse off than he thought. “I lied to you,” Geralt says. Jaskier tries to laugh. _Your bedside manner really is shit, Geralt._ “The amoris bestia did nothing to me.” 

Jaskier tries to wrap his fuzzy, wandering mind around that one. He hasn't thought of the amoris bestia in months. It takes him a moment to remember what they are, and another to understand what Geralt means. When he does, he's ready to rise from his deathbed and punch Geralt in the face.

If the amoris bestia didn't affect him after all, then everything they did that night was because Jaskier was intoxicated and Geralt was, what, _humouring him_ , the condescending ass? Unless...

Jaskier's consciousness slips away before he gets to the unless. It's a pity, really. As he passes out, he thinks it's probably something he would like to consider. 

When Jaskier opens his eyes, he's not in the afterlife. Or if he is, he and most of humanity have been sold a total bill of goods about what that actually is. He doesn't remember anyone ever telling him that, after death, one could expect to ascend to a rusty bed in a tiny, dirty room, with dust on the window and an permeating odour of mildew.

“Oh. You're awake.” A thin, reedy voice sounds mildly surprised. Jaskier tries to turn, to see where the voice is coming from. A wave of agony stops him. “You shouldn't move yet,” the voice says, too late. The old man comes into Jaskier's line of sight. He's hunched, with no more than three strands of grey hair atop his wrinkled head, and a face like a shrivelled apple. “Your friend will be pleased. Your very large friend. Your very, very large friend.” 

“Geralt.” Jaskier's voice is back. It's not his own. It's raspy and hoarse, but at least it's there. “I'm not...”

“Not dead, no. It was a close thing. Very close. Took a lot of work, a lot of spells. A lot of ingredients. A lot of very expensive ingredients.” The man, a mage Jaskier assumes, looks at him meaningfully. 

Before Jaskier can tell the mage he might as well kill him again because Jaskier's flat broke, the door bangs open and the mage shrinks back, making himself even smaller. Two loud footsteps and Geralt is there, towering above the bed. 

“You're alive.” He doesn't smile, but he doesn't scowl. 

“Yes,” the mage answers for Jaskier. “And who can put a price on life? That said, there were quite a few ingredients...” 

Geralt tosses him a bag of coin. It hits the mage in the chest, nearly knocking him over. “Leave,” Geralt orders.

“Yes. Yes, of course. Thank you, sirs. You're always welcome back. Tell your friends. I also do love potions, results guaranteed.” He goes, his spindly arms clutching the bag. A cavalcade of questions dance in Jaskier's head, but one struts immediately to the forefront. 

“The fucking amoris bestia, Geralt?”

Geralt looks away. “I was concerned for your health.”

“And you didn't want me to go out with that on your conscience?” 

“I don't have a conscience.” Another lie. “I wanted you to know.” 

Jaskier coughs. It helps, a little. His voice is clearer when he says, “Know you put yourself through the horrific ordeal of fucking me for my benefit?”

Geralt's gaze returns, along with his scowl. “Know I wanted to do it.” 

Being stabbed in the back was less of a shock. “Geralt, you.” Jaskier stops. He has no idea where that sentence is going; it seems wiser to stop it. 

“I took advantage of you,” Geralt says, because apparently he's decided to give Filbert the Fool a run for his money. “It is unforgivable.” He turns, as if he's actually going to leave. 

“You fucker. You know I love you.” 

“That makes it worse.” 

“Because you don't love me back.” Jaskier's known that for years. It should hurt to say it aloud, maybe, but instead it feels strangely liberating. 

“What?” Nothing surprises Geralt. Except, apparently, the painfully obvious. 

“Of course I know it, Geralt. It's hardly a secret, and you said yourself I'm not an idiot.” Jaskier still carries those words close to his heart.

“Fuck.” Geralt sighs, sounding so put-upon that Jaskier is about to remind him that he, Jaskier, is in fact the one who just leapt from near death straight into an argument about feelings with a man he's loved forever, when Geralt goes on, “Why do you think I just paid half a year's wages to bring you back from the dead?” 

Jaskier needs to do this day over, and change it. Get out of bed a little earlier or a little later, turn left when he turned right, have fucking porridge instead of eggs. Something. Because it's just going from one insanity to another. 

“We're friends,” Jaskier says. It sounds less sure than he'd like it to. 

“And it's the worst fucking idea to think about being more.” 

“But you do think about it? Being more?”

“It can't happen.” 

“Are you trying to kill me again, Geralt? Because that seems like a terrible waste of your money.” Jaskier frowns. It hurts, so he stops. “Just how did you get that much money, anyway?”

“Don't ask.” Which, of course, means that Jaskier absolutely should ask, over and over again. But perhaps not right now. Right now, Jaskier says: 

“Can you just tell me one thing? Honestly?” Geralt doesn't move. “Do you love me? In a non-friend, non-relative, 'I want to fuck him so badly I could gag' sort of way?” 

A long pause. Just when Jaskier is about to give up, Geralt, still not looking at him, replies, “Such an affair will hurt you.” 

Happiness rolls through Jaskier, exactly the way pain did not too long ago. There's a song in there somewhere. Something something two sides of the same coin. “Geralt, my dear, I've already been the next thing to murdered. I don't think you can do worse than that.” Even if he did, it would be worth it for the time they had together. Jaskier will explain that to Geralt, one day. Possibly with pictures so his emotionally stunted self can really get it. 

Geralt swallows so loudly, Jaskier can hear it. “It will hurt me.” 

Jaskier reaches out. Geralt lets him take his hand, entwining their fingers on top of the stained counterpane. “And you were fucking fine with it when you saw me practically die this time? You know, because we're just friends, right?” 

“I betrayed you with the amoris bestia, when you were unable to defend yourself.” 

Jaskier refrains from rolling his eyes. “Then make it up to me. Kiss me. Right now. No weird monster shit, just you and me.” Geralt, naturally, hesitates. If he doesn't give in now, Jaskier doesn't know what he'll do. Give up, he guesses. He's never worked this hard for anybody. But then, there's never been anybody like Geralt. 

Finally, Geralt leans in, and Jaskier is so incredibly thrilled, he nearly leaps off the bed. He forces himself to stay still, instead. Completely still, as if he's hunting a skittish beast of his own. At last, at last, at long _fucking_ last, Geralt presses his lips against Jaskier's. 

It's soft, and hesitant, and it takes all of Jaskier's willpower and residual post-death pain to keep from pulling Geralt down on top of him. Instead, he parts his lips just a little. Rather than flee, as Jaskier half expected he would, Geralt does the same, and it evolves slowly into a proper kiss, with tongues and everything. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier breathes, when at last Geralt pulls back. He doesn't go far. He keeps his hand locked with Jaskier's. Jaskier wouldn't let go if...well, if his life depended on it. “Let's get out of here.” This room is drab, unappealing. Not the place for them. 

Sitting up is harder than expected, until Geralt puts one strong arm around Jaskier's shoulders, the other around his waist, and lifts, carrying him like a newly wedded husband sweeping up his bride. Jaskier's arm goes around Geralt in turn. _Now this_ , Jaskier thinks, as Geralt kicks a door off its hinges and manoeuvres down a rickety staircase, _is exactly what Heaven is meant to be._

***

“Fuck, Geralt!” Jaskier gasps, trying to regain his composure. It's impossible. The moment he tries, Geralt's tongue is back in position, licking filthily the length of Jaskier's rigid cock. “You are so wonderful at that. Is it a witcher thing, or a you thing? If all of you can do it, I tell you, you're wasting your talents on monster hunting. Open up a brothel at Kaehr Morhen. You'll never have to worry about coin again.” 

Geralt hums around Jaskier's dick. He supposes that's meant to convey disapproval, over Jaskier's subject matter or perhaps the fact he's still talking at all. Jaskier can't bring himself to feel chastened. If he was in a particularly saucy mood, he might even keep it up, to provoke Geralt into gagging him, which sometimes leads to Geralt binding Jaskier's wrists, which can open up an entire new avenue of fun. Tonight, however, Jaskier just lies back on his bedroll and looks up at the stars. 

They have certainly shone kindly on Jaskier of late. A month after getting together, Geralt is still Geralt, of course. He doesn't make a display of their still-new relationship any more than he makes a display out of anything else, but he will kiss Jaskier in tavern bedrooms and quiet forests. He lies with Jaskier as a matter of course. He's taken to asking for a single bed rather than being put out when that's all a village inn can offer. He acts, in short, as much like a lover, both in bed and out of it, as Jaskier had ever expected him to, and Jaskier never knew he could be so happy. 

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier sighs contentedly, as Geralt repositions Jaskier's legs over his shoulders. He dives back in, this time slipping his tongue past Jaskier's balls to his hole, which eagerly awaits filling with Geralt's tongue or his cock or any part of Geralt he cares to share, whenever he cares to share it. “My beast of love.” 

Geralt pinches him, hard, on the side. Once again, it does nothing to dampen Jaskier's spirits. He laughs, from self-satisfaction and from sheer joy, and holds Geralt close in a way he hopes tells Geralt, in no uncertain terms, that now Jaskier has him, he never wants to let him go.

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: The typical sex pollen dubcon, made worse by the fact only one person is sex pollened and he thinks they both are.


End file.
